Hi. Let’s talk about fame.
I don’t know why it’s always felt so scary for me to discuss this topic. I feel it does many a great disservice. It’s also a symptom of success (which we all want, right?), a potential doorway to great influence and a platform that — when used for good — can have tremendous impact.
Fame is not something I set out toward when I pursued music. I’ve always felt cripplingly aware of the number of eyes on me and how this impacts the degree to which I might consider myself important. It “others” people in a profound way, disconnecting us from that beloved, grassroots feeling of being actually very similar to the people around us. Fame insists that we are special, set apart, and perhaps most dangerously, that we are holy in some way.
Around the age of 19 or 20, I discovered Thomas Merton. I became so enthralled by his writings, especially during my years living in Los Angeles. After the whirlwind I experienced with Gotye surrounding the song “Somebody That I Used To Know” I craved a sense of settling down, grounding in nature with animals, and believe it or not, I found it on a small urban city farmhouse in Silverlake! It was the perfect place to feel absolutely, completely ordinary. Just what I wanted.
I had 5 sheep, 20 free-range chickens, a few goats and a sheepdog who looked out for the other animals. I cooked in an outdoor kitchen, sat up on a hill with my guitar (where I wrote most of The Golden Echo) looking out over the reservoir while the sheep grazed on the grass. I would read Thomas Merton most days and hang on his words like honey, every drop a balm for my soul. A soul that remained confused and divided in a city that praised my public self while simultaneously knowing very little of the person who lay within. I was beginning to understand solitude and felt finally able to sense the distinction between that and loneliness.
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to Kimbra’s Substack to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.